by Kevin Sands
The words barely took up the top quarter of the page. The rest of the parchment below was covered in a bizarre, intricately looped design. It reminded me instantly of the symbol I’d seen in the dagger’s glass case. This was a Weaver rune.
I stared at it for a while, but looking too long made me dizzy. Even after I pulled my eyes away, it left me with a faint headache. “Looks all right,” I said.
Mr. Solomon nodded. “Then I will bind myself here, in your presence.” And he drew out a knife.
I leaned forward with the others, curious. I’d never seen an enchantment created before.
Mr. Solomon slit open the end of his index finger. Then, using it like a quill, he began to trace the rune that took up most of the scroll.
I thought the symbol would take dozens of strokes. But Mr. Solomon’s finger never left the page. He swooped it around, all angles and curves, his blood mixing with the ink.
I tried to follow his movements, but it was impossible. As the Weaver painted over the rune, his blood fizzled and burned on the parchment, filling the room with a coppery scent. Then, as quickly as it bubbled, his blood sank into the scroll, the ink disappearing with it. If I looked at just the right angle, it looked like there was something on . . . no, in the page, like in the glass case. Otherwise, the scroll appeared as if the rune had never been there at all.
Yet, unquestionably, something was happening—to Mr. Solomon himself. As he inscribed the rune, his breathing grew labored. He began to sweat and turn pale. Bags darkened under his eyes, like he was passing night after sleepless night. His cheeks sunk in and hollowed. It was like he was dying, right before our eyes.
And I realized, with horrid fascination: he was. You can use the energy from any living thing to bind an enchantment, he’d said earlier. Even your own. That’s what he was doing. We were literally watching his life drain into the page.
He finished the final stroke. A flash of light sparked on the parchment, a momentary, miniature sun. I heard a rushing, like air down a tunnel.
Then the man slumped in his chair. The Lady in Red remained behind him, unmoving. The air smelled faintly sour, like after a thunderstorm.
“You all right, mate?” Lachlan said.
Mr. Solomon kept his head bowed. When he answered, his voice was weak and thready. “I will be fine. We must conclude our business.”
He motioned feebly to the Lady. She took the satchel from his desk and handed it over.
“This contains what you need to begin the job,” Mr. Solomon croaked as Lachlan rifled through the pouch. “There is a layout of the High Weaver’s home, and a map of the city in detail. I have also provided twenty thousand crowns—”
He coughed, hacking and heaving, drawing great, shuddering breaths. When he pulled his hand from his mouth, I saw blood.
He cleared his throat. “As I was saying. I give you twenty thousand crowns to cover any expenses: tools, bribes, what have you.”
“What if we need more?” Meriel said.
He smiled thinly. “No offense, but I don’t think it wise to give you too much at the moment. After all, there’s nothing keeping you here. The binding’s magic works only on me.”
“What if we need something else?” I said. “Not money. To ask you a question, say, about weaving. Should we come here?”
“It would be safest”—he coughed again—“if, from this point on, we had as little contact as possible. Nonetheless, I have anticipated your questions and so devised a manner in which we may speak.”
The Lady in Red stepped through the narrow door behind the desk and returned with a small wire cage. Inside was one of the most remarkable—well, not a creature, exactly. It just looked like one.
It was a construct of a sparrow. But unlike Lopsided, this construct wasn’t made of clay. Its feathers were fine, hammered metal, tinted a light brown. Its eyes were smooth black jewels. When the Lady brought the cage in, it was still. But as soon as she put it down, the automaton began hopping around, unbelievably lifelike.
Lachlan’s eyes lit up. He tossed the bag with the maps and money to a startled Gareth and leapt to take the cage. The bird tweeted at him. It sounded just like the real thing.
“What’s his name?” Lachlan said.
“It is an object,” Mr. Solomon said. “It requires no name.”
“Everyone needs a name, mate.”
“I don’t give two moons what you call it,” Mr. Solomon snapped.
Lachlan went quiet. Mr. Solomon took a deep breath. “The bird has been bound to fly to me when asked. If you wish to send me a message, speak and I will hear it. I will return it to you with my response. Now. If there is nothing else?”
No one said a word.
THREE DAYS LEFT
CHAPTER 10
The Lady in Red shuffled us out the servants’ entrance, onto the back streets. After the stuffy heat of Mr. Solomon’s home, the cool air was like a splash of water. I mopped my brow, feeling like I’d woken from a dream.
Rob the High Weaver. Why not just ask us to steal the sun?
I shivered, and not from the chill. The others were lost in their own thoughts, except for Lachlan, who I wasn’t sure had too many thoughts in the first place. He was happily poking his finger into the construct’s cage, trying to coax the sparrow to hop onto it. Foxtail, too, seemed entirely untroubled, skipping over cracks in the flagstones and twirling her skirt, like she was playing some private game.
I’d wondered how the girl could possibly walk the streets in that mirrored mask. Her solution was simple: a hat, its wide brim adorned with flowers and a veil. Once she’d tied it below her chin, the mesh covered her surprisingly well. Even knowing the truth, I couldn’t really tell she didn’t have a face. Still I wondered what in the blessed name of the Spirits the purpose of her mask was.
As for the others, Oran, Meriel, and Gareth all stood apart, pensive. I expected Oran to take command; he had the biggest reputation of any of us. Yet he said nothing. Just stared back at Mr. Solomon’s house, frowning.
Well, we couldn’t stand here forever. When it became clear Oran wasn’t going to speak, I did. I’d watched the Old Man set us up on countless jobs; may as well do the same.
“We should rent some rooms,” I said. “Somewhere for us to stay, to plan what’s next. Anyone know Carlow?”
Lachlan looked up from the birdcage. “Lived here all my life, guv,” he said cheerily.
“We need someplace busy. Not too bad, not too nice. A lot of traffic, where no one pays attention to who comes and goes.”
“Too easy. Follow me.”
We began to move out—all except for Oran.
“You coming?” I said.
“No.”
I stopped. “You don’t want the job?”
He shook his head.
Meriel snorted. “Pay’s too little, is it?”
He shrugged. “Money’s no good when you’re dead.”
“You’re afraid of the High Weaver, then?”
“Course. Aren’t you?”
I certainly was. But Meriel drew herself up. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“How stupid.”
Her eyes flashed. “Coward.”
He shrugged again.
Lachlan was disappointed. He’d clearly been looking forward to working with a legend. “C’mon, mate, didn’t you steal the emperor’s scepter? That must have been cracking hard.”
“It’s not about tough,” Oran said. “It’s about time. Took eleven months to plan that job. Bloke wants his prize in three days.”
“Isn’t that what the trunk of money’s for?”
“Another problem. Payout’s too high. Two million crowns? For a jewel?”
“It’s obviously not an ordinary jewel,” I said. “It must be enchanted.”
“Only makes it worse. Whole thing’s a mistake.
” Oran turned to me. “You know I’m right.”
Probably. I had two thousand crowns in my pocket and the freedom to walk away with it. That was the safe play.
The smart play, the Old Man said.
And look where playing it smart got me, I shot back. Sleeping in Grey’s closet, making five hundred a job. Which have dried up, by the way, since you’ve gone. I’ll never get a gaff like this again.
The Old Man laughed. That’s my point. Need. Greed. And speed. Remember?
Yeah, I remember. But this can’t be a gaff on us. Why would anyone bother?
The lie is hidden in the truth, he said. That’s how the gaff works. You know this. I taught you this.
You taught me how to squeak out of a gaff, too, I said. Whatever else you were, you were the best. Do you not believe in me at all?
He didn’t answer.
“Look,” I said to Oran, “we’re not committed to anything. It’s Mr. Solomon who’s bound to the job, right? So let’s check it out. See if it’s even possible. If it’s too difficult, too dangerous? We walk.”
Oran shook his head. “Just trying to convince yourself now. High Weaver. Three days. Even if we can pull it off . . .” He stared back at Mr. Solomon’s home. “Something else is going on here. Something much, much bigger than us. Breakers stuck their noses in. Look what happened to them. I’m out.”
He turned and walked off into the crowd.
CHAPTER 11
Oran’s departure cast a pall on the group. Lachlan was disappointed. Gareth kept even more to himself, eyes on the ground. Meriel scoffed. Only Foxtail seemed untroubled, playing her imaginary skipping game and twirling as we walked.
But they stayed. Not together; everyone kept their distance—and their eyes on Gareth, who was carrying the twenty thousand crowns Mr. Solomon had given us for expenses. Personally, I wasn’t worried he’d run off with the money. He wasn’t the type. Too nervous, too hesitant. If Gareth was going to steal, he’d do it when no one was around. Otherwise, he’d do everything he could to avoid conflict. Made me wonder just what he’d be good for on the crew.
Meriel wanted to hire a private carriage to the hotel. We certainly had enough for it. But I thought it would be a good idea to stay as anonymous as possible from now on. So instead, we took one of Carlow’s many omnibuses: long, double-decker public carriages that made regular stops on prearranged routes through the city, from five a.m. to midnight. For a few septs, anyone could hop on and ride as long as you didn’t mind either the crush of people or sitting on the roof, holding straps attached to the canopy.
Lachlan knew the route—Pine Street omnibus, he said—so we walked to the nearest stop and squeezed in among the commuters. We didn’t stand together, but even if we had, I doubted there would have been much conversation. Except for Lachlan, of course. He showed the bird proudly to everyone who’d speak to him.
This is off to a fine start, the Old Man said.
I didn’t even bother to tell him to go away.
* * *
Lachlan may not have been the sharpest knife in the belt, but he’d told the truth about knowing Carlow. The hotel he brought us to, the Broken Bow, was just the sort of place we needed: respectable quality, in a decent part of town. A working-man’s lodging, for clerks and such who lived outside the city.
As we hopped off the omnibus, Foxtail tugged on my sleeve. She moved her hands and fingers in short, jerky motions, trying to communicate.
“Something wrong with this hotel?” I said.
She gestured at her veil. Then, with a quick glance round, she pointed at the door and mimed lifting it from her face.
Meriel understood. “She can’t wear the veil inside.”
“Why not?” I said.
“It’s not fashionable.”
“Who cares? We’re not going to a party.”
Foxtail put her fists on her hips and tapped her foot. Meriel looked at me as if I were hopeless. “People will stare.”
Oh. That was a problem. Though it made me wonder again how the girl got around in ordinary society. I had to imagine she didn’t. But then . . . how did she live?
I was dying of curiosity, but didn’t ask because I didn’t think she’d answer. In fact, she may not have been able to answer. I was growing more sure by the minute that while her mask let her see, it didn’t allow her to speak. Instead, she used gestures that seemed structured enough to be some sort of language, though it was awfully hard to grasp what she was saying. After a somewhat frustrating bout of hand waving and finger waggling, I finally realized what she wanted.
“Foxtail needs rooms around back,” I said to Lachlan. “So she can get in and out without anyone seeing her.”
She gave a thumbs-up. Lachlan returned it. “No worries, luv. I’ll handle it.”
Foxtail, unconcerned once again, walked away, twirling a couple times before disappearing into the alley next to the hotel.
“You ever seen anything like that?” Lachlan asked. When I shook my head, he said, “Seems nice enough, but that mask—Shuna’s paws, mate. Gives me chills.”
I couldn’t disagree.
* * *
The hotel was bustling, just the sort of place to lose ourselves in the crowd. “We’ll need a story,” I said, “as to why we’re here.”
“Oh, this is me, guv,” Lachlan said.
“Wait—” I began, but he’d already gone. He strode up to the clerk and plonked the birdcage down on the counter.
“Spirits shine on yer,” he said cheerfully. “Me and this lot”—he jerked a thumb back at us, standing by our valises—“are new in town, eh? Here for apprenticeships and whatnot. Think you can do us up a bunch o’ rooms?”
That was the least believable story I’d ever heard. He might as well have told the clerk we were the emperor’s personal guard, here for the cherry festival. Now we’d need another hotel.
Except we didn’t. I was just about to yank us out of there when I noticed the clerk glance down at Lachlan’s hands. The boy had placed them on the counter in a deliberate way: sticking three fingers out on the left, two on the right. Slowly, he drummed them on the wood.
The clerk hesitated only a moment. “Certainly,” he said, as if he hadn’t just heard the worst lie ever. “How many rooms do you need?”
Lachlan got us a private suite in the back, paying a week in advance. It was only eighteen crowns, but he passed the clerk a hundred from the pouch Mr. Solomon had given us and didn’t ask for change.
“Keep yer head down,” Lachlan mumbled, so no one around could hear.
The clerk slipped the hundred inside his jacket. “Shuna’s blessing, friend,” he replied, barely moving his lips.
Lachlan returned with our keys. I said nothing until we were on our way up the stairs. “You gave him a sign.”
“Who, me?” Lachlan tried to put on a look of innocence. His grin rather spoiled the effect.
Now I understood. “You’re a Breaker.”
His smile faded. “No Carlow Breakers no more, guv. But I was a runner, yeah.”
I should have guessed. Runners—usually smaller children—worked in the Breakers as go-betweens. They’d arrange deals and meetings, pass messages, that sort of thing. It was smart; if the Stickmen put a hook into the runners, they usually weren’t carrying stolen goods or any hard evidence that would get them tossed in prison. Not that the kids wouldn’t still get a beating.
“You didn’t get tagged in the raids?” I said.
“Couldn’t find me. Least that’s what I say.” Lachlan hugged the birdcage to his chest. “Stickmen probably just didn’t care. I’m not worth the bother.”
The boy surprised me. My initial impression wasn’t wrong: eager, flighty, not too bright. But he’d already shown himself to be of value. What’s more, unless he was the greatest actor I’d ever met, Lachlan really did seem to be as open-he
arted and guileless as he appeared. I hadn’t imagined a thief could survive like that.
I slung my arm across his shoulders. “You know, Lachlan, if I destroyed the Breakers, I promise: you’d be the first one I’d execute.”
He grinned up at me. “You’re a good man, guv.”
* * *
The rooms were better than I’d hoped. The suite the clerk had booked us into was on the top floor. There were six bedrooms, a private common room, and even our own water closet with a working tap. Our windows opened onto the back alley, offering a fine view of a plain brick wall.
Meriel crinkled her nose—the air was fragrant; I think the brick wall belonged to a tannery—then moved off to inspect the bedrooms. Gareth trailed in behind us, so tall he needed to stoop to get through the door.
Lachlan threw open the windows, though I’m not sure if that made the smell better or worse. He unlocked the birdcage, shaking a warning finger at the construct inside. “Righto, Galawan. You can fly about, but don’t go out the window, eh? Don’t want you getting lost.”
The bird sang a little melody, then flew from its cage. It landed atop the coal stove and chirped, blinking.
“What did you call it?” I said.
“Galawan. And he’s not an it. He’s a person, just like us.”
“How can he be a—never mind. You picked a name, then?”
“Geezer on the omnibus, actually. ‘What’s his name?’ he says. ‘Dunno yet,’ I says. ‘I can’t think of one that fits.’ So he says, ‘You should call him Galawan.’ And I says to myself, that’s a right proper name for him, innit?”
“Why Galawan?”
“Dunno. He didn’t say. But it’s good, eh?”
“Sparrow.”
We turned, surprised. It was only the second time we’d heard Gareth speak.
“What’s that, Gareth?” I said.
“Galawan,” he said, in his low, almost-whisper stammer. “It’s a w-word from the Old Tongue. It means ‘sparrow.’ ”